I was born in the early hours of Christmas Eve, the process precipitated the previous afternoon by the shouting of an excited neighbour in the red terraced street below our front window—"The butcher has turkeys! The butcher has turkeys!” And thus my lifelong obsession with food began. ‘The butcher has turkeys.’ This was serious stuff. In 1947, Britain still experienced wartime rationing and continued to do so until 1951. I have no idea whether my mother was in the mood for a Turkey dinner that Christmas Day or who would have cooked it. I imagine I had other priorities.
These thoughts were precipitated by the discovery of a wartime Recipe Booklet.
A week’s ration
It makes for pretty grim reading unless you’re a puritan, an ardent green or wear a hairshirt tucked inside your underpants.
Wartime propaganda portrayed a picture of hardship shared, but rather like the recent Covid experience it was different for the rich or for those who lived in the country where game and fresh produce abounded.
London clubs and hotels like Claridges and the Ritz continued to cater for the privileged via the black market and landed estates. Denis Wheately who popularised the occult in his fiction recorded treating his companions to regular lunches of smoked salmon or potted shrimp at the then famous Hungaria. This was followed by Dover sole, salmon, jugged hare or game, with Welsh rarebit as a savoury to finish. After their wine, they would finish with port or kummel.
With this in mind, enjoy the fruits of life while you can. Ignore the siren calls of those extolling the virtues of insects and beans; leave krill to the whales. No one is going to go into labour because the grocer has chickpeas. Go for chicken instead, lamb, pork and beef as money allows; do so in the knowledge that when ration books or their ‘nudge’ equivalent return, politicians will chew fried crickets with relish on TV before washing out their mouths with a fine Chardonnay and go home to a good steak. The rich will just ignore the whole sorry business.
2 comments:
You're talking to my wheelhouse. I have several cookbooks from The Great Depression. Although I wouldn't make many of those recipes today, I have gleaned quite a few tips to make meals stretch.
My favorite was how housewives used to save the potato skins with eyes and carefully plant them. I've actually tried it and it works, though it helps to give the plants a little extra wood ash and compost to get them off to a strong start.
Maria, I think I’ll die happy knowing I’ve never grown potatoes from eyes. As bucket lists go, it’s not up there 🤣🤣🤣 I also have no intention of eating roast heart again; tripe maybe
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